


Soup

by Wafflesrock



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Father-Son Relationship, young Tarquin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wafflesrock/pseuds/Wafflesrock
Summary: Tarquin's graduation from bootcamp brings back fond memories for his father.
Relationships: Adrien Victus & Tarquin Victus, Adrien Victus/Original Turian Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 19
Collections: Spectre Requisitions 2020





	Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelwingsl3 (Marie_Fanwriter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter/gifts).



The streets of Cipritine were more crowded than usual. People moved like shoals of fish; large, flashy groups all headed in the same direction and of one mind, swimming up the streets and walkways toward the Spire. 

Adrien supposed he was one of the fish now too. Unlike most of the other parents he wasn’t draped in cloaks or ornate jewelry - his official Captain’s dress with the numerous pins attached at the cowl was gaudy enough. But the way the schools of other families parted before his rank and title left him feeling more like a marine predator than one of the shoal.

Graduation from bootcamp and assignment to a military unit was a right of passage in turian society. A prestigious assignment was the source of great pride to many families. Though it marked another milestone too: the official end of childhood. 

Tarquin was an adult now, Adrien mused as the monolithic building that housed Palaven’s government came into view. When had  _ that  _ happened? It didn’t seem so long ago that they sat at the kitchen table discussing strategy over an old schematics board; Tarquin a gangling fledgling whose fringe was still soft. 

He’d grown into himself. He spoke with confidence beyond his years even though he might harbor internal doubts. He had the Victus build and his grandfather’s mandibles, but his  _ eyes. _ Those were the same arresting shade of sea foam green as his mother’s. 

Adrien sighed wistfully. Magrim would have been so proud of their son. His exceptional communication skills and strategic brilliance had landed him a coveted position with the Hierarchy Space Force aboard the super dreadnought THS Diatryma.

The family name  _ might  _ have played a small role in this prestigious placement, but Adrien knew Tarquin was a dedicated, disciplined soldier who, much like his late mother, had a keen focus for details. 

Regardless of assignment, any ship or company would be lucky to count him among their ranks.

The tapestry-draped entrance to the Spire led into a large hall, lined with banners representing the different, notable military branches and regiments. The flow of people became stilted as some paused to admire the decor or else take holos. Adrien bit back irritated vocals. He often had cause to visit the Spire and the pomp and circumstance had long lost its luster.

A family consisting of a mother, father, and two young girls abruptly stopped in front of him as the father held out his omni-tool to take an impromptu family photo. Adrien nearly tripped over the smallest child and allowed his subvocals to air his displeasure. 

The father glanced over at him, eyes zeroing in on the insignia adorning the collar of his jacket. “Sir!” he exclaimed, dipping his head in respect. “I apologize.”

Adrien waved him off and continued down the hallway and into a colossal room where the ceremony was to be held. Picking his way through the seemingly endless sea of chairs he settled himself as close to the stage as possible. His own parents were on their way, eager to witness their only grandson’s advancement up the ranks. 

Magrim’s parents had sent their regrets. Her mother was ailing from a heart condition and couldn’t travel and her father refused to leave her side. Adrien could understand that. If there were ever something he could change about his past, it would be to spend more time with Mags. 

He glanced around the room and the colorfully dressed people finding themselves seats. The last time he’d been here, he’d also been with Tarquin, he recalled. Some stuffy Hierarchy affair he was obligated to attend, but this one encouraged bringing your families. 

Magrim begrudgingly accompanied him. She hated her own dress uniform, complaining that it was too restrictive. 

"I don't know how you do it, Private!" She called from within their walk-in closet. Stepping out into the open, she plucked at the uniform with her talons, pulling the fabric away from her hide as though there were thorns sewed into the seams. "I'd rather snap a spur than wear this for five minutes, let alone five hours. I can't move!" She demonstrated with a full - and rather easy - arm rotation. "I'm bound to spill something on it and besides,” Magrim moved in front of their mirror, slender mandibles drawn against her face. "It makes my waist look thick.” 

Despite her complaints, she’d touched up her colony markings and taken extra care to file and scour her plates. She was an arresting sight; gleaming like a newborn star, tall and lean, with eyes that swirled and shifted with emotion like Palaven’s inland oceans. 

“You’re beautiful,” Adrien breathed, subvocals whirring in an unending song of adoration. 

Magrim huffed, glancing away in mild embarrassment. “Yeah, well. Couldn’t let you be the most attractive parent.”

Adrien’s mandibles flared out into a grin, vocals dropping in pitch as he approached his mate. He rubbed his brow against hers, reaffirming their bond with scent and touch. Before he could suggest anything else, Tarquin came scampering out of his room.

Barely three years old with more energy than a varren pup, their only child ran full force into Adrien’s legs. 

_ “I’m fancy too!” _ He squealed in warbling, high pitched subvocals.  _ “Daddy,  _ **_I’m_ ** _ fancy.”  _ His small eyes twinkled with mischief as he stared up at his father. Like many chicks his age, Tarquin still preferred to talk primarily in his subvocals. He’d start using both larynxs soon enough, the doctor had advised. Then Adrien and Magrim would wish he were only using his subharmonics. 

“You are incredibly fancy!” Adrien laughed, scooping up his son as the family headed to the skycar. "Maybe too fancy." Adrien stretched out his arms, holding Tarquin away from his keel. "Is this even my son, or are you an impostor?"

" _ No, it's me, Daddy!" _ Tarquin declared as he was lowered into his car seat.  _ "I'm just fancy me." _

For all her proclaimed hatred of fashion and expensive clothing, Magrim had found and purchased a dress uniform for Tarquin from the premier fledgling fashion boutique in Cipritine. It included white xemna-leather boots and copper buckles on the emerald green jacket.

“It’s different if it’s for him,” she’d defended when he’d confronted her about the hypocrisy. 

Tarquin chirped in excitement the entire drive to the Spire. “Hold my hand,” Magrim admonished as they reached their destination and ascended the marble steps.  _ “Calm down, Pin Feathers,” _ she instructed subvocally as Tarquin squirmed, attempting to look at the other arrivals. 

_ “Want play!” _ he whined.  _ “Mommy! I want to play!” _

Magrim glanced at Adrien. They’d already had this conversation. Mags thought Tarquin was too young for such a lavish venue and ought to stay home with a sitter. Adrien had argued that their son was hyper, but not naughty, and it would be fine for him to attend. 

In reality, Adrien wanted to show Tarquin off. Several other Captains had been boasting about their chicks while he was at the Hierarchy Office of Internal Affairs dealing with bureaucratic nonsense two weeks prior. One’s daughter was already an expert sniper, the other’s had the makings of a surgeon. They’d asked if he had children and he’d - admittedly - bragged about how Tarquin was already taking after his father and would be in a command position soon after bootcamp. When they’d inquired if he planned to bring this amazing child to the upcoming dinner event, he’d hastily assured Tarquin would be there.

He hadn’t mentioned the conversation to Mags. She’d tease him and he’d deserve it. 

“Pin Feathers!” Magrim hissed as Tarquin attempted to pry his little hand loose from hers. “You have to hold my hand! We’re going to go eat a fancy dinner.”

_ “Dinner?” _ Tarquin parroted back.  _ “A Fancy Dinner?” _

“That’s right,” his mother confirmed before looking back at Adrien. “This is going to be a long night,” she sighed, mandibles flaring with aggravation. 

Adrien ignored her as they were ushered into a massive room filled with circular tables. At the far end of the room, situated on a raised platform, was a long, rectangular table with a large bowl of  Caeruleum wine placed in the center. 

The highest ranking generals and members of the Hierarchy would each fill a glass of wine from the silver and glass bowl and then share a toast with everyone else. They were above the rest, yet all for the same cause. Or so the ceremony was supposed to demonstrate. 

Adrien and Magrim chose a table toward the back where a lieutenant with two younger chicks of her own was seated with her mate. Tarquin sat next to the older child, a girl who looked like she was five or six. She had amassed a stack of meat crackers from the communal basket and was stacking them into towers, much to Tarquin’s fascination. 

_ “I want soup!” _ Tarquin demanded, once he'd inevitably lost interest in the girl's project 

“You have to wait, Pin Feathers,” Magrim responded as she settled next to Adrien’s side. “Why don’t you ask daddy for some crackers?”

Adrien reached into the basket and handed Tarquin his own cache of crackers.  _ “Crackers and soup?” _ Tarquin asked hopefully. 

_ “Soon,” _ Adrien promised as Tarquin nibbled on the snack. 

With his son - for the moment - pacified, he and Magrim settled into conversation with the lieutenant and the other two adults at their table. At one point, discussion turned to Invictus. Having recently returned from assignment on the colony, Adrien had more than a few opinions to share - notably on the rampant Separatist sympathies harbored by the militia there. He was fringe deep in conversation with the lieutenant when Magrim suddenly gasped next to him.

“Where’s Tarquin?” she demanded, leaning over the table, vocals whirring in distress at the empty seat next to Adrien. 

Panic gripped his chest, sinking steel claws into his heart as he frantically rose from his chair, head swiveling as he surveyed the room. Dignitaries and military, men, women, and children swarmed everywhere. Dinner had yet to be served and people were still wandering around and talking. 

_ “Adrien,” _ Mags called, subvocals just teetering on the edge of hysteria. Though, her harmonics weren't needed to voice her concern when she wielded his first name in place of the nickname she'd given him.  _ “Where is he?” _

He shook his head as he made to start searching table to table. 

“He’s making soup,” the young girl who’d been sitting next to him offered. 

“What do you mean he’s making soup?” Magrim demanded harsher than necessary. “Did you see where he went?”

The child flared out slate-colored mandibles, dipping her head shyly at the question. 

“Kalis, did you see where the little boy went?” the lieutenant asked her daughter in a soothing voice. 

The child hummed. “He took my crackers and said he was gonna make soup up there.” She pointed toward the stage. 

Adrien rushed toward the front of the room, vocals calling out to his wayward son in a specific pitch and tone Tarquin had known since birth. He distantly thought he heard Mags doing the same from somewhere off to his right. 

He pushed past people too slow or dim to move, muttering bland apologies as he went. He stood at the foot of the platform but still couldn’t find Tarquin anywhere. “Have you seen a little boy in white boots and a green jacket?” he asked a server carrying a tray of champagne glasses. “He’s three with sandy-brown plates and green eyes,” he added. 

A series of shocked gasps and subvocal cries burst around him in a symphony of discord. 

“Sir, is  _ that  _ your child?” the server gawked, eyes trained to the stage. 

Adrien whirled in place, jaw dropping as the sound of shattering glass echoed above him. Tarquin had somehow managed to climb onto the ceremonial wine table and was enthusiastically crumbling meat crackers into the gilded bowl. He’d knocked over several of the glasses previously lined up on the table and was using a broken wine flute to stir his cracker and wine concoction. 

Training kicked in; this was an emergency situation only he was in a position to address. He tore off toward the short staircase, taking the steps three at a time. He charged up to the table and snatched Tarquin off of it. His son warbled in surprise before juvenile, bereft vocals filled his aural canal, radiating through the sound-sensitive lining of his cowl.

“My soup!” Tarquin screeched in both sets of vocals, tiny legs kicking uselessly as Adrien tucked him under an arm and, head held high, marched off the stage.  _ “My soup! Wanna finish my soup!”  _ the chick wailed, releasing a stream of cracker crumbs from his hands as he tried to free himself from his father’s grasp. 

Adrien ignored the stares, smirks, and affronted vocals as he strode down the stairs and over to Mags who’d joined the small crowd in front of the stage. He deposited their errant child on the ground in front of her. Tarquin slumped into a devastated heap of keening sobs about his unfinished soup. 

“We’re leaving!” Magrim declared, pulling Tarquin into a possessive embrace. 

Somehow, Adrien managed to politely nod to other party goers as he followed after Mags in the wake of Tarquin’s squealing cries. At least he didn’t have to worry about missing the toast, Adrien considered as Magrim stuffed their subdued, but sniffling child into his safety harness. 

A boom from the audio system brought Adrien back from his memories and into the present, the voices and vocals around him rushing back to the forefront of his consciousness. An anticipatory hush fell over the crowd like a shroud as a speaker clad in cobalt robes took to the center of the stage. 

It was the usual drivel about honor and service Adrien had heard dozens of times before from different superiors at one time or another. But, when a procession of instructors took the stage, also dressed in similar robes, Adrien fell to attention. 

Methodically, the names of the highest ranking cadets were called. He ignored the rest until “Tarquin Victus!” was announced in a solid, assured voice. 

His son walked confidently past his teachers, accepting a plaque from the speaker with a polite bow. How had he grown so big? Adrien marveled. Tarquin looked out over the crowd. Adrien waved, though he doubted Tarquin could see him. 

The same bold, white Cipritine colony markings adorned his child’s face, though eyes like polished jade gazed out upon the world. You’re a man now, Adrien thought. One any father - mother - would be proud of. My boy. My little Pin Feathers. He allowed his subharmonics to chirp in paternal love and pride. 

Tarquin strode down the steps of the stage and into a back room with the other graduates. There were still more names to call before all the Cipritine cadets took to the front and were lauded as full members of the Hierarchy. 

He was taking Tarquin out to dinner afterwards. The most expensive restaurant in Cipritine, Adrien was nearly positive of that. But, his only son had just graduated with honors. That alone was worth an expensive bill. 

Besides, he’d heard the soup was amazing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Magrim Victus belongs to S0me_Writer, arguably the godmother of all things Victus-related in the fandom. She graciously allowed me to borrow her OC and also beta-read this story. Hopefully, people enjoy my take on little Tarquin. =p


End file.
